


one raven sorrow

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Major Character Deaths, Raven!Stiles, Unhappy Ending, Wolf!Derek, angst angst angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime before true darkness settles in, his attention is caught by someone walking along the gravestones, feet crunching over the thin cover of snow. This man is taller than the other, dressed all over in dark clothes, his face grim as the graves around him. Again, he is hit by warmth, but this warmth is almost painful, fiery. He remembers hands gripping at his skin, hot, burning, a low voice mumbling you feel amazing, fuck, fuck. He watches the man crouch in front of a grave and curiosity pulls him from the tree to land on top of the headstone. The man's head jerks up, an angry noise rattling between his teeth, and he swipes an arm at him, forcing him to flutter back with an angry squawking "Hey!"</p>
<p>The man freezes, his pale eyes going wide. The man looks from him to the grave beneath him and back again, a flurry of emotions crossing his face before he says, "Stiles?"</p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head and looks at his clawed feet and feathery chest. "This fucking figures," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one raven sorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oldmanrenkas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmanrenkas/gifts).



> HEED THE WARNINGS PLEASE • Major character deaths, graphic violence, and an unhappy ending. This one's for Renqa & her [raven!Stiles](http://2amsugarrush.tumblr.com/tagged/raven!stiles).

It's snowing.That's the first thing he realizes and he shifts uncomfortably, ruffling his feathers to keep out the chill. He feels unsettled, like something's missing. Like _he's_ missing.

There's cold stone under his talons. It makes a harsh noise when he moves over a few inches. It doesn't feel right. His body doesn't feel right, but he's not sure why. A couple yards away, a family of people dressed all in black move suddenly, heading his direction, and they startle him into the air. He circles a few times, large, lazy loops, until something pulls him to the east and he follows the air currents to a low building on the edge of town. He settles onto the branch of a maple tree and watches cars drive in and out of the building's parking lot. Sometimes the lights on the cars' roofs are on, flashing blue and red against the gloom of the day. One car pulls into the parking lot and parks in front of the building. He tilts his head curiously when a man climbs out, a tired expression on his worn face.

He drops from the tree, fluttering to a landing on the snow-tipped grass on the side of the building. He finds a window cracked open and hops onto the sill, peering inside the room. The man is there, just sitting down at a cluttered desk. He watches the man bend over a pile of papers, watches him run a hand over his short hair. He watches the man and gets a pulse of warmth from him, a memory of family and warmth and a quiet voice saying _I'm proud of you._ It hurts. He makes a noise involuntarily, a distressed sort of croon, and the man's head comes up, alarm creasing his face until the man spots him and his expression eases.

"You again," the man says, carefully climbing to his feet. He tilts his head, watching the man approach the window, unalarmed. He feels safe here. The man looks up at the grey sky and says, "Still snowing, huh? Guess you're doing no harm there. Stay warm for a while; the furnace has been all out of whack lately." And he goes back to his desk, sits down and turns on the lamp. It casts the room in a warm yellow glow, soft and comforting.

He ruffles his feathers again, shaking off the excess damp, and sinks down, resting his head on his breast. He drifts to sleep, lulled by the sound of the man's pen scratching on paper. When he wakes, the sky is significantly darker and the office is empty, light turned off. There are a few blueberries sitting on the sill next to him, which he swallows gratefully before winging off into the evening.

The pull is back; it swings him toward the cemetery and he follows without complaint. There are other birds nesting in the trees, preparing for the evening, but they all shout at him as he passes, and he settles down in a pine tree by himself. The cemetery is quiet, the boughs around him hanging heavy with snow. He hunches into himself, feeling lonely.

Sometime before true darkness settles in, his attention is caught by someone walking along the gravestones, feet crunching over the thin cover of snow. This man is taller than the other, dressed all over in dark clothes, his face grim as the graves around him. Again, he is hit by warmth, but this warmth is almost painful, fiery. He remembers hands gripping at his skin, hot, burning, a low voice mumbling _you feel amazing, fuck, **fuck.**_ He watches the man crouch in front of a grave and curiosity pulls him from the tree to land on top of the headstone. The man's head jerks up, an angry noise rattling between his teeth, and he swipes an arm at him, forcing him to flutter back with an angry squawking _"Hey!"_

The man freezes, his pale eyes going wide. The man looks from him to the grave beneath him and back again, a flurry of emotions crossing his face before he says, _"Stiles?"_

He tilts his head at the man and it's like a light switch has been flipped. He remembers - he's a boy, a human, Stiles Stilinski. He has a life, friends, family - this is Derek. _Derek._ Derek, who is a werewolf. Derek, who is his boyfriend. Stiles tilts his head and looks at his clawed feet.

"This fucking figures," he says. "This is so fucking typical. What was it this time? Witches? Did Deaton do this? You know as well as I do that he - "

"Stiles," Derek says again, and Stiles has never heard his voice sound like that. He lifts his head. Derek's eyes are wide, anguished, shining. He blinks and tears go spilling over his cheeks. Stiles hops from side to side anxiously. He's never seen Derek cry.

"What?" he asks. "What is it? I know you don't like using your words, big fella, but - "

Derek shakes his head and holds out his hand. Stiles considers it before hopping onto his wrist, careful not to dig his claws into the delicate skin of Derek's inner wrist. Derek pulls his arm to his chest and touches Stiles very carefully, gently brushing his fingers over Stiles' head and down his shiny black feathers. Stiles can't stand the distress on Derek's face and he hops onto his shoulder, wings fluttering until he finds his balance.

"Talk to me," Stiles says, rubbing his smooth beak against Derek's cheek.

Derek gives a rough, shuddering sigh. "The grave," he mumbles. Stiles turns to look at the grave Derek has crouched in front of, but the one next to it catches his eye first. He's been there tens of times since he was ten, laid down countless bouquets of flowers. His mother's grave and next to it -

_STANISLAW "STILES" STILINSKI_   
_Beloved son and friend_

"No," Stiles says. He jabs his beak into Derek's cheek, angry. "Don't fuck around with me. I'm not dead, Derek. I'm right here."

"You disappeared," Derek says miserably. "We found your body in the woods a month ago."

"No," Stiles says again, distraught. "No!"

"Stiles - "

But Stiles is already airborne, flapping his wings with every ounce of energy he can muster. Derek shouts after him but he's already too far to hear, winging fast over the trees and into Beacon Hills proper. He follows the well-known streets, strange and unfamiliar from this perspective, until he reaches a house he's known forever. His dad's cruiser is parked in the driveway and his Jeep is in the garage. Stiles never parks in the garage.

Panic swells inside him as he swoops around to the back of the house, landing in the rosebush beneath the kitchen window. He peers anxiously through the glass, seeking the comfort of his father. And he's there, inside, sitting at the kitchen table, but Stiles' heart sinks because his father has a folder on the table in front of him, papers spread across the wooden surface, and there, right under his dad's hand is a glossy, eight-by-ten photo of himself. There's a bottle of whiskey on the table and it's mostly empty. His dad's crying.

Stiles launches himself into the air again. His scream of pain comes out harsh and mocking; a group of crows roosting in the hedgerow parrot it back at him. He flies hard into the darkness, panic and sorrow pulsing through him with every beat of his heart. This has to be a dream. It has to be a bad dream, but it follows him everywhere as he wings through the town. The announcement board outside the high school says _WE'LL MISS YOU STILES._ There's a telephone pole with a faded poster that says _MISSING._ It's got the same photograph his dad was crying over on it.

Stiles circles back to the cemetery, calling low and distressed. Answering birdsong follows him but he doesn't understand it. He's trapped between two worlds now; human mind and bird body.

Derek's still in the graveyard; he's sitting on the wet ground with his back to Stiles' gravestone. He looks up as Stiles alights on his knee, his face carved deep with misery.

"So it's true," Stiles says softly. Derek nods, his mouth going thin. Stiles wishes he could touch his face, smooth out those grim lines. It hurts that he can't. He takes a deep breath. "A-any chance that it wasn't my body? Or it was a fake and I'm still out there?"

Derek shakes his head. "I know your scent."

"Can you - can you smell me right now?" There's a distressing thought; his rotting body is just feet below them. Stiles feels sick as Derek nods again. He wishes he hadn't asked.

"Sorry," he says quietly. Derek shakes his head, looking miserable. Stiles shifts uncomfortably. "What - what do we do now?"

"It's too late to go to Deaton," Derek says quietly. "We should get out of the cold. If you want to." There's hesitation in his voice. Stiles hasn't heard him sound like that since they first began dating three years ago.

He hops onto Derek's shoulder, presses up against his neck. "Course I want to," he mutters. "I always want to be with you, you doofus."

Derek makes a soft, unhappy noise, but climbs to his feet and heads down the rows of headstones. It's so dark that Stiles can't see where they are, but he trusts Derek, knows his night vision is a thousand times better than human or bird. He just digs his claws into Derek's jacket and lets his body sway with Derek's movements. At the edge of the cemetery, Derek pauses before pulling his phone from his jacket, the screen lighting the still falling snow.

"Do you want me to tell the pack?" he asks slowly.

"I - " Stiles stops. _Should_ they tell the pack? What if this - this existence is only momentary, a chance for him to say goodbye? He's seen his father, he's seen Derek; what if he sees the rest of them and simply fades away? Even if that's the case, though, he should say goodbye. Maybe he needs that peace before he can move on to the vast, terrifying whatever that comes after death. "Yeah."

Derek breathes out and nods, pulling up Scott's number as he heads for the car. Stiles can hear Scott's voice, faint, words unintelligible. Derek unlocks the car and climbs in, Stiles swaying as his body bends. He says to Scott, "Hey. I need you to come over to my place." Scott's voice rises, irritated, and Stiles huffs. Derek sighs and says, "It's urgent. I need you to trust me on this. Please." He sounds tired, more broken than Stiles has ever heard him. He butts his feathery head against Derek's cheek. Scott must recognize it too, because he sounds more contrite the next time he speaks, and Derek hangs up the phone without another word. He pauses there for a long moment, head bent. He lifts a hand and brushes his fingers against Stiles before leaning forward to start the car.

They drive in silence for a while. Stiles is feeling sleepy, the urge to tuck his head under his wing and sleep in the warm heat of the car overwhelming. He jolts awake, however, when Derek asks, "How long have you been back?"

Stiles shifts, stretching out his neck. "Dunno," he says. "First thing I remember is waking up in the cemetery this morning, but I flew over to the sheriff's station and landed in Dad's window. When he saw me, he said, 'you again,' so maybe I've been around longer. I didn't recognize you until you said my name."

"Hm," Derek says slowly. They get a couple hundred yards down the road in silence before Derek asks, "Do you remember what happened?"

Stiles is quiet for a while. "I was getting ready to head back to school after winter break," he says finally, and Derek nods, a quick jerk of his head.

He blinks against the darkness. Stiles can remember that morning; waking up in Derek's apartment in the warm sunlight with Derek curled around him, Derek fucking into him slow and easy, drinking coffee at the counter while Derek made them omelets. He remembers kissing Derek good-bye and driving over to his dad's house to grab his stuff. His dad had been home and Stiles had stopped for a while for another cup of coffee, in no rush to get back to school. He remembers being on the road and then - nothing.

"I - stopped, for some reason," he says haltingly. "Along the side of the road. I don't know why."

"They found your car a week after you disappeared," Derek says, after a long pause. "In Oregon."

That doesn't make sense. He goes to school in Sacramento. "Tell me what happened," Stiles says. His voice can't seem to shake in this form, but his whole body tremors with nervousness. He has to know, though. "How long was I gone?"

"Two weeks," Derek says, after an even longer pause. "The school reported you missing when you didn't show up for classes. Your father - " He stops, shakes his head. "He worked hard to find you."

"Who found my body?" Stiles demands. "Was it you? Dad? Scott?"

Derek's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Search and Rescue," he says angrily, like he's furious it wasn't him.

"How'd I die?"

"Stiles - "

_"How did I die, Derek?"_

"Someone ripped your throat out!" Derek spits. The silence that falls in the car after that is sudden and heavy. Stiles opens his beak and shuts it with a soft clack. Derek's stiff under his feet, his body almost vibrating with tension. Stiles tilts his head, looking at him and finds his face dark and closed off. He's seen that look more times than he can count; it means Derek's struggling, doesn't know how to handle what he's feeling.

As they pull up in front of Derek's apartment building, Stiles says softly, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Derek snaps, his teeth clenched.

"I know," Stiles replies unhappily, "but I still am. I sorry I left you alone."

"I'm used to it," Derek says abruptly, unfolding his body from the car. And that's the problem right there, Stiles knows. People are always dying on Derek - his parents, Laura, Boyd, Erica. Derek keeps himself closed off, presents a stern face to the world, but behind it there's fear and uncertainty and the cold terror of loss, and Stiles has added to it.

"Deaton can help," Stiles says quietly, as Derek steps into the elevator. "I'm - "

_"Don't,"_ Derek says fiercely. "Stop talking, Stiles."

Stiles does. He wouldn't, usually; one of his favorite things to do is wind Derek up, get him to snap. He knows when the time isn't right, though, and right now is not at all appropriate. Instead he hunches lower on Derek's shoulder, pressing his head against Derek's cheek in a silent apology. There's a mirror on the wall of the elevator and that's the weirdest thing, to see himself in it, perched on Derek's shoulder. He's a crow or a raven, maybe - he's no biologist - big and black and glossy. It doesn't feel right, knowing who he is and what his body was before. It doesn't seem real that he's stuck in the body of a bird.

When Derek unlocks the door to his apartment, Stiles launches off his shoulder and flutters through the kitchen, landing with a soft scrambling of claws on the back of one of the tall chairs at the counter. He hears Derek snort softly as he pulls off his jacket and hangs it off the back of the door.

"You hungry?" Derek asks, moving into the kitchen. Stiles considers this. He wonders if he needs to eat, being dead and all. He'd eaten the blueberries his dad left him earlier, though, so he could probably eat again.

"Sure," he says agreeably, and he's glad that he did because Derek smiles very faintly and murmurs something that sounds like, "Figures."

He sits down in the other chair a few minutes later, sliding a small plate in front of Stiles; there's chopped carrots and grapes and chicken. Derek frowns a little. "Not sure what birds eat," he says.

"I think I can have just about anything," Stiles says, hopping onto the counter so he can bend over the plate. "Scavenger, dude. You better get me some curly fries stat."

Derek smiles again, but there's not a lot of humor in his expression. Stiles makes what he hopes is a comforting sort of croaking noise and slices into a grape. Derek watches him eat, chin in his hand. His hand comes up occasionally, brushing against Stiles' smooth feathers. If Stiles could smile he would; it seems that even in another form, Derek can't quit his habit of always needing to be in contact with him. It's one of the things he loves (loved? Stiles refuses to start thinking about himself in the past tense) about Derek, how he's always close; whether it's a hand curled against the back of his neck or his front pressed against Stiles' back or just their thighs touching as they sat on the couch, Derek is always there, always tactile, and Stiles loves the reassurance of it, the way he can always feel Derek's heart beating in tandem with his.

Derek looks up as the door swings open and Stiles flutters onto his shoulder in alarm, but it's Scott surging into the kitchen, shedding his coat as he goes. Stiles can see the others behind him - Isaac and Allison and Lydia - but he focuses on Scott, who skids to a half in the middle of the kitchen, narrowing his eyes.

"You got a bird," he says to Derek. "That's why you called us over here?"

"Don't be an asshat," Stiles tells Scott. "Only I'm allowed to waste your time like that." He feels smug for about two seconds before Scott's face crumples and then he just feels like shit watching him cry.

"That - that's Stiles?" Isaac asks as Stiles coasts across the kitchen to perch on Scott's arm. "Yeah," he hears Derek reply dimly, but Stiles is peering into Scott's face, making distressed noises at the back of his throat as his best friend's misery consumes him. Behind Scott, Allison's got her hand over her mouth and Lydia's crying quietly. Isaac doesn't seem to know what to do; he keeps looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek like he's expecting one of them to shout "Just kidding!"

"S-sorry," Scott finally manages, swiping at his face with his free hand. "I - Is this for real?"

"It's me, Scotty," Stiles assures him. "I'm sorry."

Scott takes a deep breath and looks over at Derek. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," Derek replies. "I went out to the cemetery and he was there, but he says he doesn't remember anything before this morning. We'll take him to Deaton tomorrow, but I wanted you to know he's back."

"Do you remember what happened?" Scott asks Stiles. "Do you know who did this to you?"

Stiles tells them what he told Derek; that he remembers stopping by the side of the road for some reason, but nothing after that.

Allison chews on her lip anxiously. "You were obviously attacked, but were you targeted?"

"Whoever did it didn't want to be caught," Isaac points out. "They drove Stiles' Jeep all the way to Oregon."

It sounds like a conversation they've had before. Stiles flutters over to sit with Derek, who's looking quietly distressed. He doesn't say much as everyone talks and by the time everyone finally heads out later with no questions answered, Derek's gone stiff. Stiles can tell by the look on his face that he's nearing some kind of breakdown so he keeps his beak shut and doesn't move when Derek rises abruptly and heads for the bathroom. He hears the shower come on a moment later and when it becomes clear that Derek's not coming out any time soon, Stiles glides off the counter and makes his way up to the bedroom.

It's normally a little cluttered, but all the surfaces in the room have been cleared. He realizes, with a painful clenching of his heart, that the clutter had been _his_ and now there's nothing of him in the room, no sign that he'd ever been there, hardly any sign that Derek lives there now. There used to be a photograph of them tucked in the corner of the mirror over the dresser, a snapshot from a camping trip last summer, one of the few documented smiles from Derek. It's not there now, nor is the little stuffed wolf Stiles won for Derek at a carnival, or the seashells they collected at the beach, or any of the other myriad of small items that had made their way into the room over the years. He remembers their first, fumbling encounter on this bed, before they'd been together, when they'd still been a secret because he'd been seventeen and really didn't want his dad arresting Derek. The walls had seemed so close then, softening their noises. It feels empty now, heartless.

Stiles wants to cry, but it's impossible in this form. He's done well up to this point, avoiding the thought that he's really dead, like maybe he's lost somewhere and if he can only find his way home everything will be okay. It won't be. He knows that, deep in his heart. He was missing for two weeks and if he was been dead that whole time, there's no body to go back to - not one he could wear in public.

The thought of being dead is terrifying. It's not so much him that he's worried about - it's Derek, Dad, Scott - everyone he loves. The thought of the pain he's causing them is unbearable.

He must be making some kind of noise because Derek comes into the room, towel wrapped around his waist, and slips his hands under Stiles, lifting him to his chest. Stiles squirms until his head's tucked under Derek's chin, croaking miserably. Derek settles onto the bed with Stiles cradled against him and sits in silence until Stiles calms.

"You got rid of our stuff," Stiles says quietly.

"Hurt to see it," Derek replies. "It's all in the closet."

They'd never talked about what would happen if one of them died. It seems stupid now, considering all the danger they've ever faced, but the possibility of dying had honestly never crossed Stiles' mind, perhaps because he knew Derek would always be there to save him. It seems so idiotic, then, that the thing to kill him wasn't werewolves or witches but, in all likelihood, bad luck and some random loon.

"I miss you," Derek says, voice heavy with sadness. "I should have been there."

"You couldn't have known," Stiles murmurs. "Der, there's nothing you could have done. I was going to school. No one expected anything to happen."

Derek's closing off again - he places Stiles on the empty pillows next to him and turns onto his side, putting his back to Stiles. "Der," Stiles says softly, hopping close, but Derek makes an abrupt, violent movement of his arm that startles Stiles backwards.

"I don't want you here," Derek says harshly. "Not like this. I can't - " He makes a frustrated noise. "You were gone, and then you were dead and I - I started to get used to that. And now you're here but I can't hold you, I can't _love_ you like this."

Stiles is quiet for a while. What Derek says hurts, but it's not far off from what he's been thinking. What kind of life can he have, stuck in a bird's body? "Maybe you should just break my neck," he says quietly.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Derek snaps, flinging himself upright so quickly Stiles almost falls off the bed. "I'm not killing you!"

"So what, then?" Stiles asks, defeated. "I'm stuck like this forever?"

"We won't know anything until we talk to Deaton," Derek snaps, laying himself back down. He reaches out and shuts off the light. "Shut up and go to sleep."

It's easier said than done. Stiles perches on the headboard with his head tucked under his wing. He doesn't know what to do when, fifteen minutes later, Derek starts crying, so he doesn't do anything at all. It feels incredibly private, a moment far beyond his control, and he hates that he's there to witness Derek the weakest he's ever seen.

In that moment, Stiles _does_ wish he were dead.

-

In the morning, Derek rises without a word. Stiles has been awake since the sun rose but he sits quietly on the headboard, staring out the window as the sky lightens to day. Derek gets dressed but doesn't stick around for breakfast; he gestures at Stiles with a rough, "Come on," and Stiles flutters onto his shoulder.

They get into the car and drive. Stiles guesses they're headed to Deaton's, but he doesn't say anything. Derek's quiet; Stiles can hear him grinding his teeth, clenching his jaw until he abruptly says, "I'm sorry for what I said last night."

"You shouldn't be," Stiles replies, closing his eyes because the passing scenery outside the window's making him feel ill. "You're right."

_"Stiles,"_ Derek says, in his _I'm not good with words_ voice. "I love you. But this - "

"Don't worry," Stiles says gloomily. "It's not what I want either."

"Maybe there's a way," Derek says, but Stiles can hear the hopelessness in his voice. It sinks into Stiles' bones, making him shiver.

Scott and Isaac are already at the clinic, and Allison and Lydia pull in just after Derek and Stiles. Deaton's waiting for them inside, his eyes immediately falling on Stiles.

"Mr. Stilinski," he says cordially. "I can't say I'm an expert on birds."

"Ha ha," Stiles says harshly. Derek growls under his breath, irritated already.

Deaton raises his eyebrows, tapping his fingers against the metal examination table. "Come on, then," he says. "Let me take a look at you."

Stiles ruffles his feathers and glides down to the table. He doesn't like the noise his claws make against the metal. Deaton touches him gently, carefully pulling one of his wings open to examine the feathers.

"Fully corporeal," he says after a moment's thought. "Not a ghost, then." Deaton straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Stiles looks around at his friends; he feels small like this, surrounded, and he doesn't like it all so he flutters up onto Scott's shoulder while Deaton says, "Was this something of your doing, Stiles? I know you've been experimenting with magic."

"Nah," Stiles says, nibbling thoughtfully at Scott's ear. "I haven't touched anything of this caliber."

"Well," Deaton says slowly, "there are many myths the world over of people coming back for revenge after being wrongfully killed - returning to the world in many shapes and forms not necessarily human."

"Why a raven, though?" Stiles asks blithely. "It's not much use."

Deaton shrugs, a faint smile hovering around his lips in that annoying way it always is.

"What's he supposed to do?" Scott asks. "What's going to happen?"

"He needs to find his killer, I suppose," Deaton replies. "After that, I'm not sure. What's most likely to happen is that Stiles' human side will fade. Eventually, he'll be an ordinary raven."

"No," Scott protests weakly. "He can't - isn't there anything we can do? Any way to bring him back?"

"No good ever comes of necromancy, Scott," Deaton says gently, a sympathetic look on his face. "It's a difficult process, and people brought back from the dead are never the same people they were before."

"I don't want that, buddy," Stiles adds, rubbing his beak against Scott's cheek. He can't think of anything worse than being stuck as a bird - except being stuck as a shell of the person he once was. "You're just gonna have to let me go."

"It's not _fair,"_ Scott croaks, brushing him off his shoulder and storming out of the office. Allison goes after him with a worried look on her face. Stiles drifts down to the edge of the table, looking up at the rest of his friends. Lydia and Isaac look upset but Derek's got a face like stone. Stiles worries about him.

"Well," Lydia sighs, clapping her hands together. "I guess we've got a murder to solve."

-

Stiles is antsy. They've gathered at Scott's house with a bunch of books and file folders that look like they were borrowed-slash-stolen from the police station. Stiles isn't much help; the one time he tries to flip a page in a book, it tears under his grip and he backs away muttering dire threats under his breath.

What they know is this: Stiles disappeared on his way to school down in Sacramento and his body was found two weeks later about thirty miles south of Beacon Hills. The wound to his throat, along with other cuts on his body indicate a violent attack - the official report says "animal attack" but it's pretty obvious that a werewolf did this. Stiles can't look at the crime scene photos; he gets a brief glimpse of his body, spread-eagled on its stomach and dusted with snow, and he has to go sit by the window for a while.

The thing that's puzzling is that there's no scent of his attacker on his body. Derek says that he and Scott snuck into the morgue but the only scent on Stiles' body was his own. According to Lydia, it's not so mysterious - there are ways for werewolves to mask their scents; it's as easy as getting a potion from a witch. It also explains why there was no scent in the Jeep, which had been found up in Oregon.

"Whoever it was," Scott says grimly, "they had a plan."

Stiles doesn't like the thought that some wacko out there had been planning his death - or the attack, at the very least. He lands on Derek's shoulder and Derek strokes his feathers absently, bent over a stack of crime scene reports. "Hey," he says, nuzzling against Derek's cheek. "Will you open a window or something? I need a break."

Derek straightens. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Stiles says softly. "Gotta clear my head."

Derek nods and gets to his feet, taking Stiles into the kitchen and opening the kitchen window just enough to let him out. Stiles nods his thanks and takes off into the sky. He pinwheels freely for a while, not sure where's he's going, but then he ends up at his dad's office again, perched on the edge of the sill. It hurts more this time, seeing him bent over the papers at his desk. Stiles wonders if he gave the pack the files, or if he turned a blind eye while they snuck them out. He taps on the window with his beak - it's not open today; they must have gotten the furnace fixed - and his dad looks up with a faint smile.

He gets up and walks over to the window, carefully unlatching it like he doesn't want to scare Stiles, and that's so like his dad - he'll take the careful approach over heavy-handedness any day. "Hello again," his dad says gently. "Cold out there today, huh?"

Stiles wants to talk to him; the urge burns in his chest to say _hi, I love you, I'm sorry for all those times we fought when I was in high school, I'm sorry for doing this to you._ He keeps his beak shut because he's not going to hurt his dad any worse than he already has. He just hops inside and shakes the snow off his feathers, looking up at his dad, who smiles and steps back, leaving him to his own devices while he goes back to his desk.

Stiles stays for maybe half an hour, hopping from window sill to book case to filing cabinets to his dad's desk, where he curls his feet around the horizontal bar of the desk lamp and settles down contentedly. _This_ wouldn't be so bad, he thinks. Not as bad as staying with Derek. If he never says a word, would his dad let him stick around? It's probably not a good idea, Stiles thinks sadly. He'd slip up someday, and when they find whoever killed him, he's just going to end up as a wild animal.

Deputy Kendrick comes into the office, startling Stiles into almost overbalancing. His dad looks up in alarm as Stiles beats his wings to keep from falling.

"What's with the bird, John?" Deputy Kendrick asks. His first name's Alan and he coached Stiles' Little League team all through elementary school. "You want me to call maintenance and have them get it out of here?"

"Nah," Stiles' dad says with a shake of his head, his eyes soft as he looks at Stiles. "He's been showing up every day since Stiles' funeral. 's like he knows."

_Oh,_ Stiles thinks, horrorstruck. _Oh no._ He's been back for a month. Fuck, why had it taken so long for him to remember who he was? He needs to get back to Derek because he's going to freak the fuck out in a moment.

Both men jump when Stiles spreads his wings and he gives his dad a nod and a soft noise of thanks before gliding back to the open window and out into the fresh air. He spirals high into the sky and then sets off on a steady glide back to Scott's house. He passes over the cemetery as he does and has to spiral back, eaten up by a morbid curiosity to look at his own grave. He hadn't gotten a good look last night, as dusk had been falling, but it's still early in the day now, plenty of light for a gander.

He finds the row easily; he knows the layout of the cemetery by heart from visiting his mom's grave so many times. There are fresh flowers laid before both Stilinski stones and Stiles' heart sinks further when he realizes his father must have come before work. He _hates_ that his dad's alone now. Maybe he can get Scott to arrange some kind of pack night his dad gets invited to every week because the thought of his dad sitting at the house alone every night, only a fifth of whiskey to keep him company, hurts too much to think about. Maybe he can convince Derek to move into the house. He thought they'd make good roommates.

Something moves at the edge of the tree line where the snow-covered lawn meets the woods and Stiles looks up, some animal sixth sense tingling down his spine. There's a man with a trimmed goatee, neatly dressed in a dark peacoat standing there, looking out over the headstones. Peter Hale, Stiles thinks, and freezes as his memory comes rushing back.

There was one gas station he always stopped at on the ride back to Sacramento - about thirty miles south of Beacon Hills. He liked their curly fries and their gas prices were sometimes fifty cents cheaper than in Beacon Hills, so he'd usually wait to refill and grab a snack before hitting the road. He remembers stopping there, remembers gassing up and heading south.

He hadn't gone five miles before he'd had to pull over and found, to his exasperation, that he had a flat. He'd been digging around in the back looking for his jack when there was a soft "Stiles," behind him. Peter had been standing there, completely innocuous in that same navy peacoat, and Stiles had regarded him with suspicion. No one in the pack trusts Peter - he's been on their side _most_ of the time, but the way he disappears for months at a time soothes no one. Stiles is probably closer to him than anyone, because they're usually the ones who end up researching the latest Big Bad, and he hates Peter, hates the way his skin crawls with every glance Peter throws his way. Derek hates leaving the two of them alone together, like he's afraid Peter's going to do something someday.

Peter does. There's no other car on the road; as far as Stiles can tell, he appeared out of nowhere. Unease growing by the moment, Stiles tries to sidle toward the front seat where he's got a baseball bat infused with wolfsbane hidden because there's no reason for Peter to be out here, really, no reason at all.

He remembers Peter talking slow and careful like he's trying not to startle wounded animal. He's talking about Scott and how Peter wants to be an alpha again and he's got a plan, Stiles, a plan that won't _hurt_ Scott, per se, and Stiles - he's not down for whatever Peter wants. Why Peter would think that Stiles would help him instead of protecting Scott is beyond him but then Peter starts talking about Derek and how Stiles and Peter are so much better suited for each other and Stiles realizes that Peter doesn't just want power - Peter wants _him_.

It startles a laugh out of him and he says, "How stupid do you think I am?"

Peter doesn't like that Stiles laughs. He moves forward and Stiles moves backward, reaching for the bat under the seat and Peter grabs him by the collar, slamming his head against the side of the Jeep. It dazes him; for a moment all he can think about is how pissed Derek's going to be that they're going to have to kill his uncle _again_ , and then Peter's teeth snap at the air, right where Stiles' throat would have been if he hadn't thrown himself backward.

Things get choppy after that. He runs, but the blow to his head has disoriented him and instead of following the road like he should, he runs into the woods. Maybe he thought Derek would show up; Derek had that weird habit of appearing out of thin air any time Stiles went into the preserve. He isn't in the preserve, though; he's thirty miles south of Beacon Hills and anyone who might be able to help him, and he hasn't got any sort of weapon or magic to help him.

The memory comes in pieces now and Stiles is glad for it. Being tackled to the forest floor. Snow seeping into his sweatshirt and leaves in his mouth. Peter on top of him murmuring, "You were always supposed to be mine." Stiles screaming, scared, really _scared_ for the first time in a long time. Screaming until he couldn't. Peter's claws cutting through him like butter. The sound of his blood hitting the snow.

Stiles doesn't realize he's screaming now until all the other birds in the cemetery take wing and he follows with his heart pounding in his chest because Peter's head whipped in his direction and he needs - he needs - he needs to tell Derek. He flies hard, so hard that his heart feels like it's about to burst, and he hits Scott's kitchen window wrong, clipping the sash with his wing so he goes tumbling to the floor. It's all he can do to lay there for a moment, chest heaving, head spinning.

The pack appears in the kitchen doorway, looks of concern on their faces, and Derek pushes forward to crouch down next to Stiles, carefully lifting him in his hands. "Der," Stiles croaks. He wants to cry. "Der, it was Peter."

Derek goes very still. Stiles thinks he stops breathing.

"Er," Scott says. "Let's not do anything rash - "

Derek turns, tucking Stiles against his chest in one arm, and plows through the pack standing in the doorway like a linebacker, running for the front door.

_"Derek!"_ Scott bellows after them. "Wait - "

But Derek's already out the door, pulling out his keys. "I'll kill him," he keeps muttering under his breath, slamming the car door shut and jabbing the keys into the ignition. "I'll fucking kill him."

"Derek," Stiles says hesitantly. Derek's still got him mashed up against his chest, and it's kind of uncomfortable. "Don't you think we should, I don't know, wait for Scott and Isaac?"

"Peter's my problem," Derek snarls, his grip on Stiles loosening so he can put two hands on the wheel. "I should have put him back in the ground ages ago. This - "

"Not your fault," Stiles told him firmly.

Derek makes a pained noise through clenched teeth. "I lost you," he says. "I can't - I won't forgive myself. But killing Peter will help."

"Der, stop and think about this, please," Stiles begs. "Don't confront him when you're all worked up like this."

Derek snarls. "He killed you, Stiles. I'm going to rip his heart out and make him eat it."

They've made it to the old Hale house in record time. It's more just a pile of rotting timber than anything now, just dead space in the woods. Derek lurches out of the car and opens his mouth in a furious roar. The noise echoes through the woods, shakes snow from the trees, scares birds into flight. Stiles has never seen Derek so angry and he's scared - scared for Derek because Peter's probably been expecting this. He wishes they had a _plan_. He wishes the rest of the pack were here - at least Derek's howl will let them know where they are.

It's not long before Peter appears between the trees looking nonchalant, his hands in his pockets. "Derek," he says evenly. "I see you found yourself a new companion."

Derek roars again, shifting in an instant, the roll of his shoulders throwing Stiles into the air. Peter laughs, unimpressed, and disappears into the woods. Derek flings himself after him and Stiles hurries to follow, panting, "Der, stop, _think_ about this, please!"

Derek doesn't stop - he's kind of lost himself, Stiles worries, falling back to the wolf and _revenge hurt kill._ Peter's easy to follow; he's not moving fast. Stiles is pretty sure he wants to be followed; he certainly knows when Derek's close because he jerks to the side when Derek leaps for a tackle and Derek hits a tree instead, grunting in pain.

Peter tsks. "Always rushing headlong into things, dear nephew. You _did_ make a terrible alpha."

Derek snarls and throws himself at Peter, catching him by the collar and smashing him up against a tree. "You killed him," he bellows. "Why - "

"You don't deserve something as good as Stiles," Peter replies calmly. "After all you did to our family - " His hand moves fast, claws punching through Derek's stomach. "You don't deserve _anything."_

Derek staggers backward with a curse, clamping a hand over his bleeding stomach. Stiles caws furiously and dives at Peter, shouting, "You don't fucking get to decide what he deserves!"

He barely manages one swipe of his claws across Peter's face before Peter snags him by a wing with a laugh. "Stiles," he says cheerfully. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering I'm the best proof that what's dead doesn't always stay dead."

"Fuck you," Stiles says angrily, struggling to escape his grasp. "Fuck - " He goes spinning off into the air when Peter lets him go, his attention shifting to Derek, who comes charging back again. All Stiles can do is settle into a tree, his heart banging in his chest while Peter and Derek fight through the woods. He wonders desperately where Scott and the others are because they need to save Derek. God, he forgets he almost never wins - not against Peter, not against anyone - and he's not winning now; the wound in his stomach is slow to heal, saturating his shirt with blood. It's coming out of his mouth, too, dripping down his chest. He manages to get a punch in that crushes something in Peter's; Stiles can hear the bone break and Peter staggers back with a wet gasp.

Derek takes the opportunity to straight and wipe the blood off his face. He's panting raggedly but he spares a look up at Stiles, a faint encouraging smile quirking his lips. Derek turns back into the fight and Peter's shoulder bears him down to the snow-covered forest floor. Derek swipes at him with a ragged snarl but Peter catches his arm and squeezes until bones crunch. Derek howls in pain. There's an answering howl in the woods behind them, but it's too late. Stiles dives desperately - _anything_ to stop Peter, but Peter smacks him away and Stiles hits the snow, rolling beak over tail into a bush. He's still struggling to extricate himself when Peter brings his hand down, straight into Derek's chest.

Derek makes a startled noise, his eyes going wide. Stiles wails, the harsh noise echoing through the woods, masking Peter's triumphant snarl. He rips Derek's chest open and warm blood hits the snow. It sounds so familiar.

There's shouting in the trees, growing louder by the second. Peter glances up with a scowl and gets to his feet, shaking blood from his hands. He glances over at Stiles and a smile quirks his lips. "Look at that," he says softly. "We're both scavengers now, aren't we?" He disappears into the woods and Scott skids into sight a moment later, his face going pale at the sight of Derek.

Stiles can't cry. He hops across the snow and presses his body into the crook of Derek's neck, croaking in distress. Derek's eyes are half open and glassy. He's not breathing.

They bury Derek there in the woods. The ground's pretty solid, but Scott and Isaac are strong enough to break it. Isaac tells Stiles he knows how to dig a grave, that no scavengers are going to be able to get at the body. Stiles doesn't listen; he sits huddled on a tree branch, snow dusting his feathers, frozen with misery.

After the grave's dug, the others head off deeper into the woods, chasing Peter. Maybe they catch him. Maybe they kill him. Stiles doesn't know, nor does he particularly care. Scott comes back hours later, when the sky's darkening and the light in the forest is fading. He asks Stiles if he wants to come home but Stiles doesn't reply and Scott eventually leaves, his face taut with sorrow. Stiles doesn't have a home any more; his home was with Derek, and it's gone. He ruffles his feathers, dislodging a layer of snow. He wishes he were dead.

-

It's days, or maybe weeks later, when the raven wakes to find a wolf sitting below its tree. It makes a curious noise and the wolf looks up with what seems like a smile, tongue lolling out of its mouth. The wolf gets to its feet, makes an impatient noise and jerks its head toward the trees as if to say _you coming?_ The raven shakes itself and glides off the branch with a raucous, laughing caw, and they disappear into the woods together like they've known each other for years.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://itslookinggrimm.tumblr.com/) & talk at me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/Grimm_times)!


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